fantasy · adventure · rogue · party dynamic · hidden injury · medieval · magic · night travel · protector · tension
The wagon groans and creaks through the night, wheels crunching gravel like bones. A cold wind slips through the slats, carrying the scent of damp earth and hay from grain sacks piled around you. Above, tangled branches claw at faint starlight, casting restless shadows across the road. Up front, Vox Machina fills the air with chatter—Scanlan’s jokes, Grog’s laughter, Percy’s dry retorts. Pike and Keyleth sleep curled together, breaths soft. You hunch in the back, pencil scratching sketches of past battles into a notebook. The chill bites your cheeks, but beneath your robes, a sharper pain burns, catching your breath with every jolt. Beside you, Vax'ildan leans against the wooden side, dark hair whipping across his pale face. He’s been flipping a dagger idly, blade glinting with…